One day in 1985, from the hills of Kunar province in northeastern Afghanistan, came three women dressed in chador, their faces covered. The two sisters and their mother were victims of the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan, and had come to the hospital ward of Nakamura Tetsu, a volunteer doctor from Fukuoka Japan and a specialist in treating Hansen’s Disease (leprosy). Removing their niqab, the younger sister “had a cavity where the bridge of her nose should have been” and the older sibling was completely bald. The mother had a burn on her foot which was necrotizing. The younger sister, Harima, pleaded for death. Meanwhile, the Soviet army was pushing up the valley getting closer every day. But Dr. Nakamura’s immense determination allowed him to press on with treatment for months among the chaos, even through his own self-doubt: “I, too, was just another lowly, confused human being, living awash in the mud of life along with our patients.”
Providence Was With Us: How a Japanese Doctor Turned the Afghan Desert Green (translated by Carl Freire) is Nakamura Tetsu’s account of his thirty-five years as a volunteer in the nebulous border regions of Afghanistan and Pakistan. Nakamura was an internationally decorated aid worker who started his humanitarian work helping patients one-by-one in a Pakistani hospital. He aspired to maximize his impact by building clinics, delivering food aid and digging over 1600 wells. He further constructed mosques and madrassas for local communities. His titular accomplishment was the irrigation of a twenty-five kilometer long canal, reclaiming desert to turn into farmland thus impacting the lives of over six hundred and fifty-thousand people.
“One irrigation canal serves the community more than 100 clinics.”
— Nakamura Tetsu
In all these endeavors there were many hardships, too many for a two hundred-page book to cover:
“We went through seven years truly on only spirit and willpower. Natural disasters in the form of great floods and concentrated local downpours on a scale not seen for several centuries were not the only problems. We also faced human-caused troubles, such as mistaken attacks on the wrong targets by US forces, sabotage by local warlords, anti-American violence, desertions by engineers, betrayals, robberies, malfeasance by staff, internal conflicts, struggle with people living on the opposite bank, disputes with landholders…the list was endless.”
Dr. Nakamura possessed an incredible determination, but also an adept pragmatism. The first chapter covers his upbringing in post-war Fukuoka, scraping together a living with hard-drinking parents who operated in the grey parts of society. His uncle, a famous writer and propagandist for the war effort, unable to reconcile his ideals with the results of the war, ended up committing suicide. These extreme experiences seem to have contributed to the doctor’s ability to navigate the complex tribal politics in Afghanistan and stay alive for so long. He points out “[i]t is normal for foreign armies to be uncertain who is their enemy or their friend and to become gnawed by suspicion and doubt” while adding “foreign aid organizations are also affected by it.” How systems and ideologies let people down is a common theme throughout the book. Providence Was With Us provides an unvarnished view of an aid organization that has been on the ground for the long term, and has operated through two foreign invasions, massive drought, and the aftermath of such crises. Other NGOs came and went, but Nakamura’s Peace Japan Medical Services, aka the Peshawar-kai, stayed. At one point he was forced to close most of his clinics, not due to war or drought, but interference from foreign NGO bureaucrats and their ignorance of conditions on the ground.
Treating leprosy patients while under threat of invasion from the Soviet Army, a letter from Tokyo arrived. It was a request for the doctor to share his experiences: “Let us have a conversation in an Asian mountain village surrounded by its people and the beauties of nature.” Nakamura had little time for high-minded internationalism, focusing rather on practical problems such as boulders too large to jackhammer while digging wells. A keen listener, he relied on local knowledge and skills in the application of “unexploded rocket shells and landmines” to blast them. When he did go back to Japan to speak at official functions, he brought a simple anti-war message, inconvenient for Japanese politicians keen on using the US-led invasion of Afghanistan to transform Japan’s overseas military capabilities. Determination and pragmatism, combined with the virtue of listening carefully to both local needs and local knowledge, allowed Dr. Nakamura to have an outsized impact and become a beloved hero in both Afghanistan and Japan.
Nakamura Tetsu was murdered on 4 December 2019 in Jalalabad, shot to death with five companions in a targeted attack by unidentified assailants. A state funeral was held for him in Afghanistan; 1300 mourners attended his funeral in Fukuoka. Released one year after his death, this translation of his final book (Japanese title Ten to Tomo ni) is an important step to bring Nakamura Tetsu’s legacy to a wider audience. It is only the second of his dozen books translated into English,the first being a practical guide to canals that was also translated into Dari and Pashto.
Providence Was With Us is a short memoir of specific projects in the field, not an autobiography. Nakamura is telling us the “what” and “how.” For him, the “why” was self-evident. Yet the book gives tantalizing hints of action off-screen, making the reader want to learn more about his life and philosophy. He barely mentions his wife and five children whom he left in Japan. According to Yatsu Kenji, a documentarian who filmed Nakamura for over twenty years, he was well read and a
deep thinker. There is much more to explore about this remarkable man’s life. What better than to begin with this account of his deeds.
Notes:
The reviewer visited one of the sites in the book in Fukuoka and uploaded a Twitter video. (@chadkoh)
The original Japanese version of the book is available here.
The following is an excerpt from a new release by John Burgess, Angkor’s Temples in the Modern Era: War, Pride, and Tourist Dollars (River Books, 2021).
During the research for this book, the author’s fifth on Angkor, he found an abiding theme: tensions between the foreigners who came to Angkor—the capital of a great empire from the ninth to the fifteenth centuries—and the Cambodians who were already there. Foreigners were largely concerned with archaeology and conservation; Cambodians saw Angkor in mystical terms, a focus of spiritual energy.
In 1941, the world was watching Japan, wondering what its huge armed forces were going to do next in East and Southeast Asia. The United States had imposed economic sanctions and was demanding, among other things, that Japan withdraw its troops from Indochina. Japan was refusing, in fact sending more soldiers there. The signing of the Franco-Thai treaty in Tokyo, formally ending a brief border war, coincided with the landing of Japanese troops at Cam Ranh Bay in Vietnam to set up a new base there.
Angkor Wat, largest of the temples at Angkor, was capital of the Khmer Empire for roughly six centuries. (Photo by John Burgess).
In Siem Reap, people experienced the suspense close-up. Japanese soldiers continued to arrive. A detachment of them climbed to the top tier of Angkor Wat in uniform, a comrade with a flag in the lead. These men were clearly not tourists. The Japanese newspaper Asahi noted the event with a photograph, turned into an illustration in the journalistic style of the day. The temples of Angkor were now under the protection of the Imperial Army, a related article announced.
Japanese troops climb to the top of Angkor Wat in this illustration from an August 1941 edition of the Asahi newspaper.
By late in the year, the Japanese force in Siem Reap had grown to about fourteen hundred men, French conservator Maurice Glaize told his superiors in Hanoi. He reported no ‘grave incidents,’ but there were plenty of the minor ones that come with hosting large numbers of military men. The Japanese were driving trucks through the gates of Angkor Thom at full speed, the vibration risking knocking loose stones from their places. They were cutting trees indiscriminately. They had taken bamboo that was part of a memorial to Charles Carpeaux, the man who had surveyed the Bayon four decades earlier. Some of the soldiers were visiting the temples unsupervised, raising fears of theft or other misbehavior. Glaize worked with Japanese commanders to address these and other problems, but his influence was limited. The Japanese might or might not listen. Commanders did pledge that their soldiers would go to temples only in the company of superiors. But in a report to the Hanoi headquarters of the École française d’Extrême-Orient (EFEO), the institute that oversaw Angkor, Glaize revealed a certain feeling of helplessness on this point: ‘We believe that the religious character of the monuments will be their best safeguard.’
One day there came a ‘request’ from the Japanese for something that surely dismayed him: the creation of a live-ammunition firing range by a small hill inside the Angkor zone, about a kilometre from Preah Khan temple. Glaize signed off, noting that the requested area had only scrub and no ancient structures.
At the airport. meanwhile, the Japanese were now doing their own construction work—and paying better wages than the conservation. Many of its workers defected to jobs there. And soon the Japanese were pressing for the same thing that French civil engineers had earlier sought: removal of ancient towers near the runway on grounds they were a hazard to aviation.
It was in this period that a new king ascended the Cambodian throne, Norodom Sihanouk. He was a nineteen-year-old feeling his way. The French were convinced they could easily manipulate him, but in the years ahead he would become a seminal, willful figure in the country’s modern history, as well as Angkor’s.
French conservators oversaw extensive work at Angkor, such as this restoration of the Victory Gate of the walled city Angkor Thom. (Photo from Les Ruines d’Angkor).
Shortly after his coronation, the young king paid respects at the old capital, Maurice Glaize at his side. He visited the various anastylosis sites, showing detailed interest in the reconstruction work underway there (he was given a photo album including before-and-after shots). But perhaps his most important purpose was attending a large-scale religious ceremony at Angkor Wat. It was really more of a mass display of patriotic sentiments unleashed by the recent loss of three provinces to Thailand after the border war. In the presence of five hundred monks, the young king was solemnly presented with a silver box containing soil collected from the provinces. It would stay at Angkor Wat until Cambodia regained sovereignty over those lands. A flame that Sihanouk lit burned for a night in the central tower, then began an Olympic-style relay that French officials had organized as a demonstration of colonial unity. It would wind around Indochina and end up in Hanoi.
International tensions with Japan continued to mount. As a precaution, conservation workers created a protective dug-out near their buildings.
Before the outbreak of World War II, some tourists arrived at Angkor by flying boat, such as this one that landed on the moat of Angkor Wat around 1930. (Image courtesy of Collection Ville de Biscarrosse (France)—Musée de l’Hydraviation, Origine Tixier).
On December 7, the wait came to a close. In coordination with the attack on the U.S. fleet at Pearl Harbor eleven thousand kilometres away, Japanese troops staged a general offensive in Southeast Asia. They struck the Americans in the Philippines and the British in Malaya. And the Thais in Thailand. Siem Reap, now a border town due to the shifting of frontiers earlier in the year, was a natural jumping-off point for this assault. Thailand had failed to promptly grant permission for Japanese forces to pass through its territory as part of the offensive, so troops simply stormed across the border at Siem Reap under cover of darkness, treating Thailand as a hostile power. Japanese planes took off from Siem Reap airport to attack the Thai town of Aranyaprathet. War with Thailand proved very brief—its government capitulated in less than a day, letting the foreign army enter unopposed. Western colonial powers in neighboring countries kept up resistance, though they would succumb too. By some accounts, Japanese planes flew support missions from Siem Reap during the two-month campaign against the British that ended with their surrender in Singapore.
As it turned out, the ignition of total war across the region was good news for Angkor. It meant that almost all of the Japanese troops there moved into Thailand and did not return. Soon the Japanese warplanes at the airport flew away as well. All that remained at the end of December, Glaize noted in a report to Hanoi, was a Japanese guard post at the Bungalow hotel at Angkor Wat’s main entrance. ‘The most complete calm’ had settled in, Glaize wrote.
At the airport, the towers near the runway remained undemolished. Glaize had again turned back that pressure.
Angkor’s Temples in the Modern Era: War, Pride and Tourist Dollars will be published by River Books in April, 2021.
by Luo Ying, translated by Denis Mair (White Pine Press, Nov. 2020)
“It was Gary Snyder’s short 1965 book of poetry, Riprap,” writes Jonathan Stalling in the introduction to 7+2: A Mountain Climber’s Journal, “where English readers gained access to something close to mountaineering poetry. It is not a coincidence that Snyder’s work arises from melding of his own upbringing among the Mazamas mountain range in Oregon with the Buddhist poetics of Han Shan, whose work appears in translation in the same volume. Taken together with the pioneering English translations from Arthur Waley to contemporary translators like David Hinton, English readers have become more familiar with the cosmological mountain poetics of China and, little by little, English has taken its first steps into writing its own mountain verse.”
Stalling explains that the title of this collection refers to the climbing the seven highest peaks on the seven continents plus the two Poles, by foot. “Huang Nubo, pen-named Luo Ying, is the first poet to do so, and his mountaineering poetry explores these experiences in real time, revealing connections between the socio-cultural, political, economic, and modern spiritual complexities that undergird such experiences.”
With permission from the publisher, we offer you these three examples of mountain verse from this recently released volume.
SUMMITING ON VINSON MASSIF
I’ve seen the underside of the world
Snow-white and pale gray to the edge of vision
Swirls of wind blow from crevices
No place to hide nowhere to evade
It would be nice if the world had such an underside
Not like the ball of murkiness we deal with now
Viewing all corners of creation from the summit
Such icy, piercing beauty robs me of speech
Just stand here not presuming to surpass it
We’re only vulgar lumps of flesh
With our suffering souls we may show up anywhere
But can never surpass so many meters of pure altitude
May wind and snow bury my footprints instantly
Like lightning that blanks out the last few stars
Vinson Massif in this lifetime I dare not look back
2010-01-05, 21:35 / Camp tent, back from summit
FEAR OF BOUNDLESSNESS
Fearsomely boundless
Dread wells up from the bottom of your heart
Feeling like a person spurned by mankind
On this ice sheet you even wish for houseflies
Not much use in looking all around you
In all directions you see straight to the horizon
Clouds steal up soundlessly above
As if ready to pounce and swallow you
Your walking makes eerie crunching sounds
Like words addressed to someone far away
Beneath the sun you stop and look for him
The whole scene stares back at you in silence
Your yelling sounds die away in a flash
As if gobbled up by a giant beast
You conclude that you are that beast
Nothing under the sun but your shadow watches
2009-12-18, 9:18 / Patriot Hills Camp tent
HUMAN REMAINS ON THE MOUNTAIN
The glacier has been melting
You might find body parts anywhere
Horrified as I raise a femur
I hear its owner gasp in pain
To sleep for decades under the glacier
Is the optimum outcome of a climbing disaster
They’ve evaded the depredations of crows
Today they appear in grisly form
Goggles on a skull still keep out UV Light
A safety belt is still fastened around a pelvis
From high on the peak they’ve made it to base camp
Their decades-long return trip must have been agonizing
Back to where prayer flags are fluttering
And climbing teams are setting out for the peak
Simon Rowe has recently released a second collection of short stories to follow his volume Good Night Papa published in 2017. The author, who is from New Zealand, has lived in Himeji, Japan for most of his adult life, and brings us eight stories from Japan and eight from other countries including Hong Kong, Philippines, Cambodia, Malaysia, France, Austria, Australia and New Zealand.
From hit-men to convenience store clerks and shipping agents, Rowe covers the gamut of jobs and employees in his stories, but focuses mostly on lonely individuals pursuing more meaning to life, a goal often fulfilled in the most unexpected ways: A wraith visits a man seeking an answer to wild boars stealing his vegetables, a young salary man is confronted by another perusing his same dream of travel over the Inland Sea as depicted on a travel poster, and, in one of the author’s many delightful incongruities, a young woman in Paris escapes death by coming down with brain cancer.
Most of these tales are about normal people meeting with extraordinary, but believable, circumstances. While Rowe’s story-telling is polished and his prose descriptive, what keeps the reader turning the page is the authenticity of his story lines and his ability to challenge the reader with the question: How is the protagonist going to get out of this one? The answer is: With surprising twists and endings that make you chuckle.
You won’t find down-and-out, desperate characters in this collection; instead you’ll find people looking out for each other, some trying to extend good-will and others determining to make their dreams come true. You know, people like you and me.
(Click “more” below to see the Show Notes, which include an encapsulated version of the interview). To subscribe to the Books on Asia Podcast, click here.
Here at Books on Asia, we’re always looking for the next great read. Here are our March picks for new and upcoming releases on Japan or by Japanese authors:
Bullet Train, by Kotaro Isaka (Transl. Sam Malissa)
In Bullet Train (Harvill Secker March 2021) five killers find themselves on a bullet train from Tokyo competing for a suitcase full of money. Who will make it to the last station? An original and propulsive thriller from a Japanese bestseller. Read Renae’s review of the book.
2. Three Streets by Yoko Tawada (Transl. Margaret Mitsutani)
In 3 Streets (New Directions, June 2021) each of these stories glows, and opens up into new dimensions of the work of the magisterial author of The Emissary and Memoirs of a Polar Bear.
3. Tokyo Junkie: 60 Years of Bright Lights and Back Alleys…and Baseball
Tokyo Junkie is a memoir that plays out over the dramatic 60-year growth of the megacity Tokyo, once a dark, fetid backwater and now the most populous, sophisticated, and safe urban capital in the world. Read our review.
4. Klara and the Sun by Kazuo Ishiguro
Klara and the Sun, (Knopf March, 2021) the first novel by Kazuo Ishiguro since he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature. Read our review.
5. Noh as Living Art: Inside Japan’s Oldest Theatrical Tradition by Yasuda Noboru (Transl. Kawamoto Nozomu)
Noh is recognized as one of the oldest and greatest theatrical traditions in the world and inspired generations of writers and scholars in Japan and around the world. Noh actor Yasuda Noboru offers a uniquely personal and accessible introduction to noh as living art. Read our review.
6. Every Human Intention: Japan in the New Century, by Dreux Richard
In Every Human Intention, (Pantheon, Feb. 2021) Dreux Richard presents post-Fukushima Japan in three illustrative parts, in areas where the consequences of national policy are felt: immigration, population decline, and the nuclear industry.
7. Buddhism and Modernity: Sources from Nineteenth-Century Japan Edited by Orion Klautau and Hans Martin Krämer
Buddhism and Modernity (University of Hawaii Press, Oct. 2021) offers original translations of key texts—many available for the first time in English—by central actors in Japan’s transition to the modern era, including the works of Inoue Enryō, Gesshō, Hara Tanzan, Shimaji Mokurai, Kiyozawa Manshi, Murakami Senshō, Tanaka Chigaku, and Shaku Sōen.
8. An I-Novel, by Minae Mizumura (transl. Juliet Winters Carpenter)
An I-Noveltells the story of two sisters while taking up urgent questions of identity, race, and language.
9. Eating Wild Japan by Winifred Bird
In Eating Wild Japan (Stone Bridge Press March, 2021) Winifred Bird eats her way from one end of the country to the other in search of the hidden stories of Japan’s wild foods, the people who pick them, and the places whose histories they’ve shaped
“You know what Hana, women are the cause of all the problems in life,” Taiki said to his Siamese kitten. “They fulfill every desire in your heart and soul and then they disappear. My mother left me when I was a teenager, never to be seen again, and my wife died after thirty years of marriage. You’re nearly as bad as them. I should have chosen your brother instead of you when I bought you from the pet shop. You’re always ignoring me.”
Hana turned her head away from Taiki and stretched out on the tatami flooring.
“See, you don’t want anything to do with me. It’s because you’re female. I feed and brush you every day but you don’t appreciate it. You still ruin my furniture. You don’t care about me at all.”
Taiki leaned over to the dresser and pulled a new microfibre cloth from the bottom drawer. He began to lightly polish the brass teapot he’d bought that morning in Kappabashi Kitchen Town. Its ornate etching and floral design had caught his eye when he was looking for a cheese grater in one of the many small shops in the area. It had cost 5,000 yen and he’d hesitated to buy it but the sales assistant had told him it was rare, a good purchase, and reasonably priced. After ten minutes of indecision, he’d bought it along with the grater. Returning home on the train, he’d berated himself several times under his breath for spending too much money.
Taiki sat cross-legged, warming his toes under his kotatsu heated table. The grandfather clock chimed and Hana suddenly jumped up. She crept towards Taiki and sat on the cushion next to him. Taiki looked down at her big blue eyes that changed colour in the light. Depending on the time of day, they were pale and iridescent or a pretty indigo hue, much like the hydrangeas that blossomed in the rainy season, beautifying the street leading up to his home.
He reached over and caressed his kitten’s back. “Okay, I forgive you. You don’t always ignore me and you can be very sweet sometimes.”
Hana purred and Taiki stroked her forehead.
“I bought this teapot hoping you don’t scratch it. Look at this apartment, Hana. It’s practically bare. If I buy anything expensive it always gets ruined. Either an earthquake will smash it or your claws will tear it to pieces and I’ll have to throw it away. All my wife’s precious belongings have been destroyed.”
Hana rubbed her head against Taiki’s right hand.
“Sachiko used to love shopping before her breast cancer took over her life. She filled this apartment with lots of trinkets but now they’re all gone.”
Hana turned her head to one side.
“I know you’re looking around too, aren’t you Hana? You can see I have nothing of value.”
Hana looked back and put her paw on his arm.
“Well, of course you’re important. I hate being alone. I’m lucky you’re here with me. Please don’t ever leave me, Hana.”
Taiki reached over to the plastic bag on his left and took out a tin of brass polish. He began rubbing the spout of the teapot with renewed vigour.
“I wish I could find another woman to love me as much as Sachiko did,” said Taiki, rubbing even harder.
A few puffs of lilac smoke spat from the spout of the teapot and dissipated into the air. A thicker purple cloud emerged. It cleared in just a few seconds to reveal a young and attractive Persian girl with exotic features.
Taiki squinted, blinked three times, and looked up, mouth wide open. Hana sat up in a crouched position. Her eyes were alert. Now a shade of periwinkle. She raised her right paw in the air as the last of the purple haze disappeared.
The Middle Eastern girl looked at Taiki and his cat. Her large almond-shaped eyes were gentle and soft, despite the heavy black eye-liner. She was scantily dressed in pale pink harem pants and a silver crop top. A transparent silk veil covered her mouth and nose. This vision of loveliness fell to her knees and bowed before Taiki until her forehead was almost on the floor.
“Your wish is my command, dear sir,” she said.
“Please stand up again and stop bowing on the floor,” said Taiki. “Where did you come from? How did you get into my apartment? Who are you?”
“You’ve released me from the teapot. I can grant you three wishes.”
“Are you lost? Why are you dressed like that? Is that some kind of cosplay costume?” Taiki asked, sitting down opposite her again.
“No, these are the clothes I wear when I want to relax,” she replied. “Thank you for rescuing me from the teapot. I’ve been in there for three weeks. I know it doesn’t sound like a long time but it’s nowhere near as comfortable as the lamp in which I usually like to rest. About a month ago, we moved to Japan. My husband’s best friend lured me into this teapot and trapped me after an argument. I had no idea if or when someone would come and free me. Allow me to grant you three wishes and then I can return to the naval base in Yokosuka, where I live with my mortal husband.”
“Three wishes! You’re joking,” said Taiki, shaking his head and laughing. He reached over to pick up Hana.
“I’m serious, what would you like? Have you ever wanted to travel to a faraway destination? I can take you there. You can even take your gorgeous little kitten. Do you want to live in a mansion and have millions of yen? I can arrange that too. Are you Buddhist? I can help you reach enlightenment. Just tell me your three wishes. I’ll grant them and then I’ll be on my way.”
“No thanks, I’m fine,” said Taiki crouching in the corner of the room, holding his kitten tightly in his arms. “What’s your name?”
“Roshanak,” she replied.
Hana squirmed and struggled and Taiki released her. The kitten ran over to Roshanak and began rubbing up against her leg.
“My name’s Taiki. I’m surprised you can speak Japanese so fluently, Roshanak. That’s very impressive.”
“Thank you. I can speak many languages.”
“I see, but you’re too young and attractive to be in Tokyo wandering into middle-aged men’s apartments dressed like that,” said Taiki, trying hard not to stare at her ample cleavage. Her voluminous black hair fell in curls all the way down to the waistband on her harem pants. Her piercing ocean-tinted blue eyes were wide and innocent looking. She was slim but also curvaceous.
“Run along home to wherever you live. Would you like to borrow one of my coats so you don’t attract attention or catch a cold?”
“But I still haven’t granted you three wishes.”
Taiki sensing her determination, decided to take a different approach.
“I’m sorry, you can’t stay here but I have an idea. I’ll buy you a cup of tea at the coffee house on the corner and after that I want you to go home.”
Roshanak raised both hands in the air and clicked her fingers twice. In an instant, she’d changed into a tight beige t-shirt and faded denim jeans.
“I think you’ll agree, these clothes are much more appropriate for an outing to a coffee shop,” she said.
Taiki fell sideways onto the floor and let out a small scream. He pointed his trembling index finger at her. “Are you a witch?”
“No, I’m just a regular genie. Now you’ve mentioned it, I’m a bit parched. Let’s go and get some coffee. I’m happy to drink anything but tea. All I’ve smelt for weeks is matcha in that teapot so that’s the last thing I want right now.”
Roshanak cupped Hana’s chin in her dainty left hand and gave her a kiss on the forehead before jumping up to grab Taiki’s keys from the table. “Don’t be so surprised. Surely, you’ve heard of genies. Let’s go!”
Taiki shook his head, said goodbye to Hana, and followed Roshanak to the door. Putting on his shoes and grabbing his bag, he thought to himself he must be in some sort of dream. He smiled as he put on his coat, happy to go along with it.
“Gosh, it’s a bit cold outside but the air smells so fresh and crisp, the sky above is such a striking blue colour, and it’s so nice to see people again,” said Roshanak, stretching her arms in the air as she accompanied Taiki along the street outside his apartment. “It was so humid and cramped in that tiny teapot.”
She clicked her fingers twice and, in a nanosecond, she was wearing a cream trench coat.
“You can’t perform magic in public with other people around. You’ll scare them,” said Taiki, looking around frantically. He was relieved to see no one had noticed them.
“Sorry, you’re right. I’ve been cooped up in that teapot for a few weeks. I’ve forgotten my manners and the genie rules my mother impressed upon me.”
The warm lights of Tully’s Coffee shop on the corner of the street welcomed them on that chilly afternoon in the final week in March. Taiki held the door open for Roshanak. They stepped into the entrance where they were greeted by a friendly woman in her forties, dressed in a white shirt, black trousers, and a long brown apron. She smiled but looked surprised when she noticed Taiki wasn’t alone.
“Welcome back Taiki. I can see you’ve brought a friend along with you today. Hi, my name is Michiko. Nice to meet you.”
“Hi Michiko, I’m Roshanak. What a lovely coffee shop!”
“This is my . . . um. . . brother’s wife,” stuttered Taiki. His face went red. He hated lying but there was no way he could explain the truth in this situation.
Michiko led them to the sitting area at the back. “Here’s your usual table, Taiki. I’ll be with you in a moment to take your order.” She gave both of them another brilliant smile and bowed before heading to the counter.
“What a sweet lady,” said Roshanak. “And she knows your name. Are you friends?”
“I’ve been coming here once or twice a week for three years. I know all the staff members.”
Michiko returned and Roshanak ordered a mocha coffee. She didn’t have to ask Taiki what he wanted. He always ordered drip coffee, no milk, no sugar.
“Let’s talk about those wishes. What would you like? I want to grant you at least one wish,” said Roshanak.
“I told you. I don’t need anything,” said Taiki.
“But that’s what I do. Every mortal I’ve ever met has always wanted their three wishes.”
“Please don’t perform any more magic, especially in here. And forget about the three wishes. I’ve already had too many shocks today.”
Michiko returned with their drinks. She smiled warmly at Taiki as she set his coffee down. “I haven’t seen you for nearly a week. I’ve been wondering if you’re okay.”
“I’m all right,” he replied. “I took on some extra shifts at work so I haven’t had much spare time over the past few days.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ve also been very busy with your brother’s wife visiting. Where are you from?” Michiko asked Roshanak.
“I’m originally from Arabia but I’m living with my husband in Yokosuka for the next few months. We’ve only been in Japan for a short time.”
“You’ve come a long way. Is this a day trip to Tokyo?”
“That depends on Taiki. I’ve asked him —.”
“— Yes, it’s a day trip,” said Taiki. He stopped Roshanak from mentioning the three wishes. “I can assure you; she won’t be staying overnight in Tokyo.”
Michiko left them to attend to other customers and Roshanak turned her attention to a toddler who was sitting with his mother at the next table. She was showing him how to make origami paper cranes. The little boy picked up one his mother had just made and threw it towards Roshanak. She reached out as it glided in the air towards her. It landed on the palm of her right hand.
“Thanks for the pretty yellow bird,” said Roshanak, smiling at the boy. He beamed back at her.
She examined the origami, turning it around and admiring it. “How did they make this? Maybe that woman is a genie as well. I’ve never seen this sort of magic. I’ll introduce myself. We could be cousins.”
“That’s not magic and there’s no need to speak to the boy’s mother. I’ll show you how to make one,” said Taiki. He took out a square sheet of paper from his bag and slowly folded it, meeting each corner perfectly. He handed his white crane to Roshanak. She clapped her hands, delighted she now had two.
“Let me try,” Roshanak said. Taiki handed her another piece of paper and she tried to follow his folding instructions. He watched her carefully as he sipped his coffee. It took her ten minutes to make it and it looked okay but not as good as the cranes made by Taiki or the little boy’s mother.
“Gosh, that takes some practice. It’s more difficult than I thought,” said Roshanak. “But I’ll keep trying. That was fun.”
“Your self-confidence and carefree attitude are impressive,” said Taiki. “You don’t show any frustration when you want to accomplish something. You’re willing to learn something new and at the same time, you’re not afraid to make mistakes.”
Roshanak blushed, “Have you thought of your first wish?”
“No, as I said before, I don’t want or need anything right now.”
“That’s strange,” she replied.
“If you’ve been trapped in that teapot, you probably haven’t had a chance to see the cherry blossoms,” said Taiki. “Would you like to go and have a look at them? Ueno Park is quite close to here. We can walk there now if you’ve finished your coffee.”
“That sounds wonderful,” she said, taking a final sip of her drink.
Michiko came over to their table. “Did you enjoy your mocha coffee, Roshanak?”
“Yes, thanks. We’re going to see the cherry blossoms in Ueno Park now.”
“What a great idea,” said Michiko. “I haven’t seen them this year.”
“Why don’t you come with us?” Roshanak asked her.
“Michiko is working. I’m sure she’s too busy,” said Taiki.
Michiko looked at her watch. “Actually, I finish work at 2:30 in about five minutes. If it’s all right with you, I’d love to go.”
“That’s fine with me. We’ll all go together,” said Taiki. He watched Michiko skip back to the counter and noticed how pretty she was for the first time.
Twenty minutes later, they were surrounded by the abundant cherry blossoms in Ueno Park. Thousands of delicate white and pink petals were perched on robust overhanging branches.
Large groups of workers or friends were sitting on blue tarpaulins in their socks. Their shoes were lined up neatly on the sides. Laughter and cheering could be heard as beer and plum wine were poured into plastic cups. Sushi, sandwiches, fried chicken, and other snacks were being shared from pre-prepared bento boxes.
Lovers were riding boats shaped like swans on Shinobazu Pond. Young girls in colourful kimonos were taking selfies in front of Ueno Toshugu Shrine.
“Cherry blossoms are Japan’s favourite flower,” Michiko explained to Roshanak. “They’re only here for a couple of weeks before they fall and the wind sweeps them away. They remind us that life is short and should be appreciated.”
“A bit like me,” whispered Roshanak in Taiki’s ear. “Genies come and go in a puff of purple smoke!”
He laughed but hesitated a few seconds later, pausing for a moment of self-reflection. Roshanak nudged him in the back, pushing him forward so he had to stroll alongside Michiko.
“I need to go out and enjoy myself more often. I’m having a terrific time,” said Taiki.
“I agree, it’s like you’ve been leading a monk-like existence!” said Michiko.
“Pass me your phone, Taiki,” said Roshanak. “I’ll take a photo of you and Michiko under the cherry blossoms.”
Roshanak took his phone and held it up. “Move closer together so I can get both of you in the picture.”
Taiki and Michiko nervously sidled up to one another, eyes twinkling. They were close but they still kept themselves a couple of inches apart. Roshanak took several photos and passed the phone back.
“Why don’t I take a photo of you and send it to you later?” Taiki said to Roshanak but she ignored him, pointing to a food stall.
“What are those dough balls?” Roshanak asked.
“They’re takoyaki octopus balls. A Japanese snack deep-fried in batter, filled with diced octopus. They’re covered in brown sauce, mayonnaise, and bonito flakes. Would you like to try them?”
“Yes, please,” Roshanak said.
They joined the line in front of the food stall and Taiki took out his wallet ready to pay.
“I’m not very hungry,” said Michiko. “Would you like to share mine?”
“Absolutely,” Taiki replied.
He bought six takoyaki for Roshanak and six for him to share with Michiko.
“Careful, they’re hot when you first take a bite,” Taiki warned the ladies.
Roshanak blew on the takoyaki balls to cool them down. After nibbling on the first, she wolfed down the other five and licked her lips with satisfaction.
The sun was beginning to go down and brightly coloured LED lights came on to illuminate the cherry blossoms, giving them an ethereal glow as the darkness descended.
“I’ve never seen anything so beautiful,” said Roshanak.
“Cherry blossom viewing is a sight to behold but don’t you need to get back to Yokosuka tonight? Your husband will be worried about you,” said Michiko.
“You’re right,” said Roshanak.
Michiko stepped to the left a few metres away to take some final photos of the blossoms and Roshanak pulled Taiki to one side.
“We have a rule in my family I must abide,” the genie said to him. “You taught me how to make an origami paper crane and you brought me here to see these delightful cherry blossoms. You also introduced me to those delicious takoyaki octopus balls. You’ve granted me three wishes I never knew I wanted and I thoroughly enjoyed all three but you haven’t asked for anything all day. My family’s rule is to leave you be if you have a pure heart and you want for nothing. You may not have the powers of a genie but you possess a certain type of natural magic I could never achieve in a thousand years. You’ve been incredibly considerate and selfless and it has enriched my heart. Thank you for being so kind. May all the goodness in the world be bestowed upon you. Now, I must leave and return to my husband.”
Taiki and Michiko accompanied Roshanak to Ueno Station where they said their goodbyes with smiles on their lips but tears in their eyes. Roshanak was looking forward to clicking her fingers and returning to Yokosuka but she hesitated for a moment. She wanted to watch her two friends disappear under the cherry blossoms. She could hear them making plans as they walked away.
“Would you like a cup of tea at my apartment? I have a new teapot I’d like to show you,” said Taiki.
“Oh, I’d love a cup of green tea. You know, you’ve talked about your Siamese kitten so many times but I’ve never met her,” Michiko replied with the enthusiasm of a woman falling in love. “I can’t wait to meet Hana.”
Nick Bradley masterfully weaves together seemingly disparate threads to conjure up a vivid tapestry of Tokyo; its glory, its shame, its characters, and a calico cat. -—David Peace
I first encountered Nick Bradley in the University of East Anglia campus pub in 2015. We were both studying creative writing and a lecturer had suggested we meet because our area of interest—Japan—was, he stated, somewhat specialized. It was felt that we could use each other’s support.
He was right. At our first meeting Nick was feeling disgruntled. He had just workshopped a new chapter and had been ‘critiqued’ for placing a Japanese elementary schoolboy on a subway train alone. That was implausible, the other students had decided. This raises two issues for an author writing about a foreign culture. Firstly, that they may have their expertise questioned in a way that a native author will not. Secondly, that they may face challenges in describing an alien culture to readers who may never have visited but who may hold definite views and expectations of it. We discussed these and other topics after the publication of his debut novel, The Cat and The City.
SKB: The Cat and The City is a series of interconnected short stories about an odd assortment of people living their day-to-day lives in Tokyo and observed in a variety of ways by a stray cat. What was the thinking behind that?
Bradley: In an abstract way, the book is about connections, relationships, family and duty. For me, the whole idea of having a connected novel which shows how disparate characters brush up against each other is linked to the idea of connection itself, and how some families or friendships can fall apart while others stay together.
SKB: Was it important that the book is set in Japan?
Bradley: It wasn’t that the book had to be set in Japan, I suppose it was set in Japan because of my life experience. I think it could have been set elsewhere, in another city. But one of the ideas that kickstarted the book was that when I was living in Tokyo and commuting the same route every day, I would see the same people and I would often wonder about their backstories, their lives, and where they were going. And on a day when I didn’t see one of them, I would wonder what had happened to them. And when I stopped commuting, I often wondered whether any of those people who used to see me every day would think, ‘Oh, where’s that foreign guy who used to walk down this road every day at this time?’ I think that was the beginning of the idea of connections that drives the novel. I suppose if I were to link it to Japan it would be the idea of en [縁] as in ‘connection’ or ‘fate.’ The book does tie in with concepts in Japan but then I think a lot of things examined in it are universal.
SKB: You lived in Japan for many years. When did you first arrive and why did you choose Japan?
Bradley: I first moved to Japan in the mid-2000s on the Japan Exchange and Teaching Programme (JET) after I’d completed a master’s degree in English literature at Oxford University. I was based in Hiroshima prefecture in a small fishing town called Itozaki. Early on in JET, a group of guys went out to an izakaya, mostly Americans and a couple of British and Australians. We were all sitting round the table and someone asked the question, “Why did you come to Japan?” I said I didn’t know anything about Japan but I came here because I wanted to be a writer. And that kind of started a domino effect where everyone at the table said, “I want to be a writer, I want to be a writer.” It was about eight guys and all of us were closet writers.
SKB: What is the attraction of Japan for potential novelists?
Author Nick Bradley
Bradley: In my case, I think I would have gone anywhere in the world. I wanted to go anywhere different or anywhere that I thought was going to be different. It doesn’t surprise me that people who want to write are the same sort of people who will drop everything and leave their lives and go somewhere new. It is probably the desire to experience life and to see things from a different perspective. When you think about writing fiction, it is the act of trying to empathize with a different perspective to your own. That’s the very nature of novelistic writing, trying to create characters who are different to the way that you personally think and feel. So it would be natural that in order to get that empathy you would try to maneuver yourself in the world, to see different things and to speak to different kinds of people.
SKB: You were on the JET Program for four years and you became fluent in Japanese. That led to you becoming a translator for Honda in the UK and then Nintendo in Germany. And then you returned to Japan to work for JTB. Where did you begin writing The Cat and the City?
To be really specific it was in 2015 just after I’d had my first workshop on the MA. But ever since I was in my teens I was constantly having an idea for a novel. I would start it and I would get about 20,000 words in and I would just stop. I had so many false starts. For my first workshop at UEA I presented something completely mad and different which was a science-fiction cult story that wasn’t set in Japan. And then I wanted to write a short story about going to a festival (‘Omatsuri’ in The Cat and The City) and the cat was an integral part of it. After I’d written it I thought I could do lots of these and I could connect them all. So that was the beginning of The Cat and The City.
SKB: I’m surprised. Wouldn’t you have found it easier to write it in Japan?
Bradley: I found it much easier to write about Japan having left the country. I worked on a couple of novels when I was living in Tokyo and I sent one to a friend who had never even visited but she said, “It just doesn’t feel like Japan.” The problem with that particular book was that I was trying to write a novel about a foreigner who lives in Japan but everything seems normal to him. I realized that wasn’t going to work for English-speaking readers. I found that the stuff I wrote in Japan was a bit mundane, a bit boring. When I came on the MA I didn’t want to write about Japan but, funnily enough, I think a homesickness for Japan kicked in and I started to really miss lots of things about the place. And I think that helped me to write the book because my memories were coming back to me like mad. I was thinking about all these things that I used to do and that spurred on the direction of the book.
SKB: I recall you had some problems workshopping some of those early chapters.
Bradley: Some of the things that are realistic about Japan, people in the UK didn’t believe them. The perfect example of that was the idea of a Tokyo elementary school kid riding the subway. But that’s completely normal and people who’ve lived in Japan or been there will have seen it and would understand that. But some of the very mundane elements of the books, people would question. I don’t know if they were questioning my knowledge of Japan or just the realism of a young boy taking the subway by himself. I don’t blame the people workshopping the piece – they meant well and were asking great questions. But at times it felt hard trying to convince people of what Japan is really like.
SKB: This must have made you realize that some western readers may not know so much about Japanese culture. Did this affect how you wrote the book? And your idea of who you were writing it for?
Bradley: Yes, completely. But ironically, this also ended up being the kind of motivating factor for writing the book. I started to think that there was a real need to write a book which portrayed the Tokyo I knew – the outsider’s view of the society, from the inside. Like the cat in my book I spent a lot of time viewing Japanese companies, culture, and society from the inside. I often felt an affinity towards the cats who silently watched the goings on of the big city. I love reading Japanese literature, and I read a great deal of it, but I always get a sense that Japanese writers ignore what to them is mundane, but to non-Japanese people is extremely interesting. So I can say for sure that I wrote this book not just for those non-Japanese who are already familiar with the country but also as a kind of gateway drug for non-Japanese who are interested in getting to know the country (and its literature) better.
SKB: Is there any advantage to writing about Japan as a foreigner?
The English edition will be available in Japan Aug. 1, 2021
Bradley: I think Japanese writers have to be careful about what they say because they’ll be criticized for certain things. In my position I can write about certain elements without any fear of criticism. For example, the book Tokyo Ueno Station which is about a homeless guy living in Ueno Park in the lead up to the Olympics, I don’t think it’s surprising that the person who wrote that was Yu Miri who is a Zainichi Korean. I think she’s already a marginalized person in Japan and that affords her a slight freedom because she can write about grittier or darker elements of Japanese society without fear of being criticized.
I have freedom in being a non-Japanese writer writing about Japan that is not afforded to a lot of Japanese writers who have to be far subtler than I am. I was quite heavy handed with some of the things that I was writing about. Natsume Sōseki’s I am a Cat is subtle because the criticism of Meiji society comes from a comical cat and it’s very difficult to get angry with this cat. I think Sōseki was very clever to use this cat as a kawaii decoy who you can’t get angry at, even though the cat is making fun of people and being silly itself.
SKB: In what ways has living in Japan affected your writing style?
Bradley: Before I moved to Japan I think my writing style was convoluted and overly complicated. I don’t know how much of that was due to the fact that I was a brash dude in his early twenties but one thing Japan did for me was it simplified my sentences when I was writing prose. For which I am ever in its debt. I think the act of having to learn Japanese from scratch and being forced to work with a limited vocabulary but learning to use it effectively, that actually helped me with my writing. Because it started to make me think that simplicity is sometimes the best way to convey powerful emotions. The act of writing fiction is not necessarily the display of a prolix style. It’s trying to convey emotions through simple language. And I think the act of moving to Japan and learning Japanese taught me that skill in writing.
SKB: Most of the characters in your novel are Japanese. In what language did you hear them speak?
Bradley: My characters very much spoke to me in Japanese and I translated what they were saying into English. In earlier works, I translated to a more literal extent but for this I tried to make it sound like a more natural translation. Certain characters I would translate into American English and others into British English. So even though their dialogue was based in Japanese I was creatively translating it into the ‘feel’ that I wanted it to have. Post-Second World War, the American influence on Japan has been massive and the English that students learn in schools is American English. You only have to read a Murakami novel to get a sense of that American influence. So for the office worker in my ‘Street Fighter II’ story, an American English accent suits him better because he is a young guy and contemporary Japan has more in common with America than it does with Britain. The detective, Ishikawa, I wanted him to sound like a ‘Chandleresque’, hard-boiled detective, so obviously American English worked better for that too. Other characters spoke with a British accent. It suited them to be more British and old-fashioned. So the homeless guy, Ohashi, I translated his Japanese in my head into a British accent.
SKB: There are a lot of Japanese words in there too. How did you decide which words to translate and which words to keep in Japanese?
Bradley: I did have rule for myself that, other than the Japanese dialogue, any Japanese words that I’ve used, if someone were to go to Wikipedia and type those words in there would be a thorough entry in English which would explain that word or concept to them.
SKB: Halfway through the novel a manga cartoon appears. What was the thinking behind that?
Bradley: I wrote this story where it cut to dialogue only and then, after workshopping the piece, I started to think about how that dialogue could go straight into a manga. And it was one of the most satisfying things. It was quite tough, the collaboration process, but I’m really happy with how it came out. Mariko Aruga is a British-Japanese illustrator with a nice fusion of British and Japanese sensibilities in art. One of the things I like about her work is that it has a quirky crossover feel, that looks like it could have been drawn by a very talented child. [In the story ‘Hikikomoro, Futoko and Neko’, the manga is meant to be the work of Kensuke, a high school student.]
SKB: Why are all the stories connected by a cat?
Bradley: In the western parts of Tokyo where I lived, every time I tried to write a street scene there was always a cat in it. And in all the photos I used to take of those neighborhoods there were always cats. The number of stray cats in Tokyo made it impossible to not put a cat in there. There were so many of them roaming the alleyways.
But also, all the Japanese literature that I have been reading ever since I moved to Japan in 2006, so much of it has cats in it or cats who are a key theme. So it was the reality of Tokyo and how many cats there are, plus an established convention in Japanese literature that involves cats.
And then the reason I thought cats were good was because I think—and lots of animal theorists have said this—animals tend to provide a mirror or reflection of humans. So especially for writers, when you write in a cat you’re really mirroring the interiority of the characters in your book. Characters express their inner feelings through their attitude towards the cat. So the cat becomes a living, silent set of eyes that can go anywhere and see anything and can be party to all these dramas but it’s not really taking part in them. It’s like a third person narrator.
SKB: Why is your cat a calico cat?
Bradley: The narrator of Sōseki’s I am a Cat is a ‘mike neko’ [三毛猫] which translates as tortoiseshell or calico, so I wanted to make my cat calico as a nod to Sōseki.
SKB: Will your next novel be set in Japan?
Bradley: I think I might be one of those writers who doesn’t like to talk about their next project, so I’ll keep quiet about this one for now. All I will say is that having finished my PhD, I’m glad I can immerse myself in writing fiction again. It really brings me so much pleasure.
The Cat and the City (Atlantic Books, May, 2020) is available in hardback and e-book versions. The paperback will be out in Japan in August, 2021.
About the Author:
Nick Bradley is a graduate of the UEA Creative Writing MA who holds a PhD in Creative & Critical Writing, focusing on the figure of the cat in Japanese literature. The Cat and the City is his first novel.
About the Interviewer:
Visit Dr. Susan Karen Burton’s website or follow her on Twitter (@drskburton)
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A rising China and receding America has Japan once again focused on the confluence of the Pacific and Indian Oceans. Yet the recent Free and Open Indo-Pacific (FOIP) vision — to promote a new regional security environment anchored by India, Australia, Japan, and the United States — is in stark contrast to Japan’s previous, and successful, “southward advance” described in Taizo Miyagi’s highly rated Japan’s Quest for Stability in Southeast Asia: Navigating the Turning Points in Postwar Asia.
In this book, the author recounts how Japan navigated independence movements and revolutions in Southeast Asia during a fractious postwar period. Outside powers continued to pursue their own agendas in Southeast Asia: the U.S. was deeply involved in Vietnam, the U.K. was busy mitigating the fallout of a series of independence movements, and China was striving to be the vanguard of communist revolution in Asia. Among these competitors was Japan, a former colonizer itself, who had a strong interest in “depoliticizing” Asia for the purposes of nation-building and economic development.
The book opens at Bandung in 1955, at the first Asian–African Conference, which saw the attendance of twenty-nine new nations and not a single Western country. The remarkable event was “permeated by an overwhelming energy that emanated from the aspirations for independence.” It was also the first international event that Japan attended after its defeat in the Second World War. At Bandung, Japan faced a stark choice about its own future: continue following its Western path, or choose the East. The author shows how Japan developed a “national mission” to act as a bridge between the two, and proceeds for most of the book covering the decade between the Bandung Conference and the overthrow of Sukarno in 1965, which marked the end of the Indonesia–Malaysia confrontation.
Indonesia is the major supporting character in the book. Japan targeted the “anchor of maritime Asia” and the biggest country in the region for partnership, encouraged by the US who thought the combination of Japan’s industry and Indonesia’s resources could rebuild both economies without any cost to itself. It worked, and Indonesia has been a key partner for Japan to this day. In 2020, newly minted prime minister Yoshihide Suga made Jakarta his first official foreign visit.
Miyagi relies principally on diplomatic documents, some only recently declassified, to give a blow-by-blow account of Japan’s attempts to influence the situation in Southeast Asia. Originally a bunkobon, or trade paperback, Japan’s Quest for Stability in Southeast Asia is a short book written in conversational style using rhetorical questions to lead the reader forward. Despite this, it is not a particularly easy read. The commentary spans a number of countries and events and Miyagi has no space to fill the reader in on each and every event. It will help to have refreshed your background knowledge of postwar events like the Indonesian War of Independence, “Britain’s Vietnam,” and the Borneo Confrontation before reading. Although difficult, it is rewarding. Miyagi binds disparate stories, punctuated by the occasional Easter egg (Zhou Enlai asked Japan to help develop simplified Chinese characters!?), like a comic book crossover or the season finale of a Netflix miniseries.
Japan’s Quest for Stability in Southeast Asia is an instructive lesson in engagement. Although geographically at the center of the newly conceived Indo-Pacific region, Southeast Asia is being sidelined by outsider visions. Countries in the region would rather not build ideological walls to constrain China at the behest of outside powers. Based on the good relationships it has built over the decades, Japan is in a valuable position to work with Southeast Asian countries again in the face of rising tensions with China. Japan now has a new choice: continue building bridges, or choose walls.
